Dem Bones
by Aireon Maris
Summary: Dean's imaginary friend isn't what you would call typical. But with his lifestyle, what else do you expect? Crossover with Discworld.
1. Chapter 1

Dem Bones

It started out as a patch of darker shadow under a tree as they dug up a grave in the pouring rain in a cemetery just outside Seattle. Dean only caught it out of the corner of his eye and when he turned his head it was gone. He stood there for a moment, ankle-deep in mud, hunched over his shovel, blinking water out of his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam asked, pausing to check on his brother. Dean shrugged, chalked it up to too many sleepless nights and not enough caffeine, and went back to digging. By the next morning, clean and dry and with coffee pooled warm in his stomach, he forgot completely about it.

Two weeks later they were in Arizona, hunting down a malevolent dust storm spirit. They spent most of the night tramping through the desert, searching for the chindi, and the whole time Dean could have sworn he heard footsteps clicking over the stones behind them. It drove him to such distraction that he completely missed the chindi's approach and ended up in the middle of a choking dust funnel until Sam managed to get the thing with a flint knife. But when Sam demanded to know what was going on, Dean just waved him off. Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe the hunting was finally getting to him.

There was a Baba Yaga in northern Michigan. It'd already snatched four kids by the time they arrived, and two more went missing the day after they arrived. They hunted her down to a long-abandoned hunting lodge deep in the woods and just before they entered, Dean thought he heard a voice back in the trees. He almost went to investigate when one of the kids screamed from inside and they burst through the door, staked the hag down, and set the place on fire before splitting with the kids.

Dean tried to convince himself it was nothing, that he wasn't going crazy, but it kept happening. A glint from nonexistent metal in Nebraska, the swish of cloth in Montana, and the reflection of glowing blue eyes in a shop window in Indiana. Every time a shiver of cold would pass down his spine, and he'd mumble some excuse when Sam looked at him funny. But Dean was starting to lose sleep over it, and his work was slipping.

It was in a motel somewhere in the ass-end of Nowhere, Idaho that Dean jerked out of a light doze to the intense feeling that they were not alone. He slanted his eyes sideways and could just see Sam sprawled over the other bed, one arm dangling over the edge. Dean slid his hand under his pillow, fingers curling around the cool metal of his favorite .45. He spun into a sitting position, pistol aimed squarely at the figure seated in the chair across the room. His jaw fell open.

The figure, if standing, would top seven feet and was swathed head to toe in an ebony cloak. The face that was framed by a deep hood was bleached bone, teeth bared in a permanent grin. Pinpoints of glowing blue burned in the empty eye sockets. It looked up mildly.

In a voice like tolling funeral bells, it said, DON'T MIND ME. I BROUGHT A BOOK. It lifted a paperback in bone fingers for emphasis. Next to the chair, leaning against the wall, rested a scythe, its curved blade touching the ceiling.

"You have got to be _kidding_ me," Dean whispered through stiff lips.

The skeleton turned a page in its book. I AM TOLD I DO NOT HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR, it commented. Dean lowered his gun and reached up to rub his eyes.

"I'm dreaming," he muttered.

SORRY, BUT NO, replied the midnight-cloaked intruder. Dean lowered his hand and stared at the apparition in front of him.

"This can't be real. You—you're the fucking Grim Reaper."

The anthropomorphic personification so named sighed and tucked his book into his voluminous sleeve. YES. THOUGH I GO BY "DEATH" FOR SHORT. HOW DO YOU DO?

Dean blinked at him. "How do I—" he sputtered. "What the hell are you doing here?" His eyes narrowed. "Am I about to die?" An even worse scenario occurred to him. "Is Sam about to die? Because I swear to God I'll—"

NEITHER OF YOU ARE IN ANY DANGER OF EXPIRING, Death assured him patiently.

Dean blinked at him again. "Then why—" Death sighed once more and shook his head, bone gleaming in the dim light.

ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH THE PHRASE, "DEATH WAS HIS CONSTANT COMPANION?"

Realization dawned on Dean's face.

"Oh, _shit._"


	2. Chapter 2

The door jingled cheerfully behind Dean as it swung closed, clashing with his dark mood. He gripped a large cup of coffee in each hand, steaming in the crisp, autumn air. The cafe had a few outdoor tables, a couple of which were occupied. Dean didn't look around when a newspaper crinkled as a page was turned. It was only the voice that stopped him.

I DO NOT THINK I WILL EVER UNDERSTAND THIS MODERN OBSESSION WITH PUBLIC FIGURES. IT SEEMS QUITE USELESS.

Dean froze with one foot in midair. He slowly lowered it to the ground and closed his eyes. "You're still here," he said to the open newspaper at the table next to him.

YES, the newspaper replied.

"I was really hoping I was just really hungover," Dean muttered, opening his eyes and looking at the newspaper. It folded down, revealing the true speaker.

ACTUALLY, YOU IMBIBED MORE ALCOHOL AFTER MY APPEARANCE THAN BEFORE, Death pointed out helpfully. Dean glared at him.

"What are you still doing here?"

Death folded his newspaper into a neat rectangle. He reached across the table, snagged a coffee cup with bone fingers, and took a delicate sip. Dean ogled at the process, wondering where the heck the liquid went.

I THOUGHT I EXPLAINED THIS LAST NIGHT, Death replied, setting the cup down.

"No, you just made with the cryptic and ominous," Dean replied testily.

WELL, IN THAT CASE, Death rose to his feet, retrieving his scythe from where it was resting against the other chair. SINCE YOU ARE PERSONALLY INVOLVED IN A SIGNIFICANT PORTION OF MY JOB FOR THIS CONTINENT, I THOUGH I WOULD SAVE MYSELF THE TRAVEL TIME.

"So you really are gonna be my constant companion," Dean said blankly, staring up at the skull grinning down at him.

YES.

"Awesome," Dean muttered. He twisted his face into another scowl. "You're not riding with us in my car."

I HAVE MY OWN MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION.

Dean grumbled under his breath and stomped back to the motel room, where Sam was just emerging from the bathroom. He took Dean's black mood in stride, just silently reaching for one of the coffee cups and dodging nimbly when Dean chucked one of his notebooks at his head. Dean began to tear through the room with a vengeance, packing the duffels with fierce intensity. He was zipping up the last bag when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around, ready to snap at Sam, and instead nearly jumped out of his skin.

Death was standing behind him, holding a net bag filled with salt and holy water. YOU FORGOT THIS.

Dean snatched it out of Death's hand. "Do you even know what a door is?" he hissed angrily.

Death tilted his skull. IN THEORY.

Sam poked his head out of the bathroom. "Who are you talking to?" he asked. Dean stared at Sam, his mouth hanging open.

"Big skeleton, black cloak?" Dean suggested, waving in Death's direction. Sam gave him a weird look.

"Uh...okay. Have fun with that," and retreated again.

HE DOESN'T SEE ME, Death explained.

"Why the hell not?" Dean snapped.

Death smiled. How Dean could tell, he had no idea, seeing as Death's face was a permanent tooth-baring grin. Maybe it was the way the glowing blue eyes suddenly seemed to twinkle. And then he was gone. Dean blinked. He'd been staring right at Death but he hadn't seen him disappear.

Yup. He'd finally lost it.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Dean saw the black-cloaked figure, he threw a left hook that left his knuckles aching and Death looking bewildered. _Damn_, how was a freakin' _skull_ able to project that much emotion?

I BELIEVE I MUST HAVE MISSED SOMETHING, Death said, sounding a little uncertain.

"She was ten years old!" Dean raged, shaking out his injured hand. "She didn't deserve to die like that! _No one_ deserves to die like that!"

Death nodded slowly. I SEE, he commented softly.

Dean glared up at the animated skeleton. "That's all you've got to say?" he demanded. "She was just a _kid._ She got ripped to pieces and you could have done something!"

A slow sigh hissed between Death's bared teeth. NO, I COULD NOT.

"What the hell do you mean?" Dean growled. "You're Death, aren't you? Don't you get to decide who lives and who doesn't?"

Death slowly shook his head. NO, I DON'T. ALL I DO IS COLLECT THE SOULS. SOMETHING ELSE DECIDES THEIR FATE.

Dean blinked at him for a moment. "Who?" he asked suspiciously.

Death shrugged with a quiet rattle of vertebrae. FATE. THE UNIVERSE. THE GODS. I AM NOT ALL-KNOWING, DEAN.

The human absorbed that, and then his shoulders slumped. "Fuck," he muttered wearily, rubbing his eyes. He heard Death's robes rustle and the handle of his scythe scrape along the ground.

SHE ASKED ME TO GIVE YOU THIS.

Dean looked up. Death was holding out a hand, a small hourglass held in his distal phalanges. As Dean took it cautiously from the bony, white grip, Death continued, SHE SAID YOU TRIED YOUR BEST AND THAT SHE IS NOT ANGRY WITH YOU.

Dean stared at the hourglass. Along the rim was emblazoned the name "Savannah Jones." When he tipped it over, the sand in the bottom remained stubbornly in its place. "She really wasn't mad?" he asked, trying to ignore the plaintive sound of his voice.

NO.

And that was the far better gift he received that day.


End file.
